


oceans apart

by whenitgoeswrong



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, nothing explicit or drawn-out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-03-17 18:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18970786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenitgoeswrong/pseuds/whenitgoeswrong
Summary: “There is no time to be fighting each other. You have a connection that many would kill for, one that many will try to kill you for if you don’t band together.” He looked somewhere around Jon’s shoulder. “Your father is indeed an honourable man, Jon Snow, but you must keep Daenerys a secret. If you don’t, she will die.”Daenerys stiffened at his side. She had dropped his hand when he’d proclaimed his father honourable, so now he reached out, only half-reluctantly.He felt nothing under his palm, but she turned to look at him, expression unreadable.“I’ll keep it a secret.” He whispered. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”- - -A kind of Sense8 AU, but it's just Jon and Dany. They have each other from the beginning, and things turn out differently.





	1. Age Five

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very self-indulgent fic about Jon and Dany growing up together. They're both very lonely characters throughout much of their journeys, and I wanted to imagine a universe in which they could talk about their similar journeys as they happened. The canon changes little, and I'm not the most well-versed in the GoT lore, but hey! D&D weren't either, so.

_ Age Five _

 

He was chasing after Robb when it happened. 

It was a chore to keep his brother’s mop of curly hair in sight whilst weaving in and out of the people crowded in the courtyard, but he was managing, trying to catch his breath between breathless fits of laughter. Just as he cleared the last of the smallfolk, he was yanked off his feet.

He couldn’t help giving a yelp of pain when he hit a hard wooden floor, thrown to his hands and knees. It took him a moment to gather himself, heart pounding unsteadily in his chest.

When he looked up, his head spun. It took him a moment to adjust, vision blurry. Bit by bit, the room appeared around him; first the warm wooden panelling, then richly red curtains, then a huge window that let in light that bathed the room in a pleasant glow.

He’d never seen anything like it, this room hazy with gold. Winterfell was shades of greys, whites, browns and blacks, the most variation found in the red of Lady Stark’s hair.

As soon as he was able, he got to his feet, rubbing his knees to rid them of the ache. Unsteadily, he walked to the window, thrumming with nervousness. He lifted himself up onto his tip toes and peered out, hoping to catch sight of home somewhere in the distance. The greenness of the garden appeared similar to the godswood, but any hope that he could see where he was died with the high stone wall.

It all felt like a strange joke, one that Theon would relished in pulling, but he didn’t know how he would have managed taking him outside the gates without Father stopping him. It was so hot, he must be very far from Winterfell indeed. Father would never allow it.

Surely he hadn’t been  _ kidnapp ed _ _;_ no lord would take him instead of Robb. Even if they had mistaken him for a trueborn son, it still didn't explain the suddenness of his arrival in the new place.

“Who are you?”

He jumped and whirled around, his teeth nearly slicing through his bottom lip in his hurry to turn.

In the doorway was a girl, scowling like she thought he’d stolen her last bite of dessert. Her dress flowed off her like water, contrasted by the iron set of her jaw. Her eyes were bright purple and full of fire, pinning him in place.

He realised with a start that she looked like a Targaryen, with her shock of silver-white hair. Maybe he'd hit his head instead of being kidnapped, and he was dreaming.

His lack of a response seemed to infuriate her.

“Who are you?” She asked again, her voice rising. “I’ll call for Ser William if you don’t tell me at once and he’ll have your head!”

He frowned petulantly, his awe dissipating.

The girl was pretty, if unusual, but he didn’t like people who ordered him about, especially because so many thought they could. Father told him that if anyone spoke disrespectfully to him, he was to politely tell them to leave him alone, unless they were highborn or Theon.

“Are you a lady?” He asked, saving his irritation for the moment.

She drew herself up to her full height — which wasn’t much — and looked down her nose at him. “I am a princess.” She professed haughtily.

He supposed that being a princess meant he couldn’t be upset at her for ordering him about. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gave her a clumsy bow, nearly tipping all the way over. “I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I am at your service, Your Grace.”

The princess faltered for a moment, then smiled widely.

She had a pretty smile. Robb would like her very much.

“You are from Westeros?” She asked excitedly, stepping towards him.

He frowned. “Of course.” Where else would he be from?

Her mouth parted in an o of pleasure. “I am from Westeros too! I was born on Dragonstone, during the worst storm the land had seen in centuries! That's where I get my name.”

Jon nodded politely. Storms were nothing to sneeze at on an island, but he’d never been to one. Besides, being born in a storm was not so impressive - surviving one was. But being rude to a princess wasn’t allowed, so he stayed mum.

She considered him when he didn’t reply, a thoughtful look falling over her features. “You say you are at my service, Jon Snow, son of Ed-dard Stark.” She stumbled a little over his father’s name, but recovered herself quickly.

He nodded, shifting from foot to foot nervously. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then if I ask you to swear fealty to me, you will do so?”

He thought about it for a moment.

He’d never sworn anything to anyone before, not even Robb. His father told them that the bonds of oaths were more secure than the bonds of family; if they were broken, honour would be lost forever. Oaths were not sworn lightly, no matter who asked for them.

Yet his father also said that whatever royalty asked for, it was to be theirs. Unless it put his life in danger, he should do his best to obey a royal order. Even if he had just banged his head and was in a strange dream, he didn’t want to disappoint his father.

He nodded carefully, his assent making the princess beam instantly. She smoothed her grin down with some effort, and straightened her spine. “Then you shall swear it, Jon Snow.”

Obligingly, he lowered himself to his still-aching knees. It was only once his head bowed that he realised he had no clue what the words of the oath were. He peaked up at her and was relieved to see she wore an expression of similar confusion.

She noticed him looking at tilted her chin up. “I shall make a new oath, just for those who want to swear to me.”

“Are you allowed to do that?” He asked, skeptical. He was sure there was a reason why everyone swore the same oaths, and it was unlikely that she could just change the rules because she couldn't remember the words.

“I am a princess,” She said haughtily. “I am allowed to do whatever I please. Now, repeat after me, Jon Snow.”

He managed to hide his grin by ducking his head, but only just. “Your Grace.”

“I, Jon Snow of House Stark, swear by the Old Gods and the new that, I so long as I live, I will protect my princess, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

His head shot up, surprise filling him. “I thought the Targaryens were gone. Our maester says they were all killed during the Rebellion.”

She narrowed her eyes. For a moment, she seemed like she was going to spit fire at him for defying her, just like the Targaryens of old. “I am a Targaryen and I am standing before you, am I not?”

He thought about it.

Maester Luwin had told him and Robb all about the last Targaryens and their defeat at the hands of King Robert Baratheon’s armies. Rhaegar Targaryen had been killed on the Trident, the Mad King slaughtered in the Red Keep, and peace was brought to the Seven Kingdoms.

When he truly thought about all he’d been told about the Targaryens, he supposed it was rather ridiculous to presume they were all gone. The greatest house in all of Westeros surely couldn’t have been vanquished in only a few battles; it seemed much more likely that they’d taken their ships and sailed away.

Jon looked up at the princess, who was growing steadily less impressed with him.

Yes, he supposed that believing a Targaryen stood in front of him was less far-fetched than a number of things.

“Alright,” He said slowly, “Sorry.”

She studied him for a moment before she cocked an eyebrow. “Are you waiting for an invitation, Jon Snow?”

He scowled. Robb really _would_ like her; she was just as rude as him .

“I, Jon Snow of House Stark, swear by the Old Gods and the new, that I so long as I live, I will protect my princess, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

She gave a smug smile that was entirely unbefitting of a princess. “And I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, swear by the Old Gods and the new that I will grant you my protection in return, and vow to ask of you only what I know is just.”

Silence settled over them, and for a moment it was peaceful. But when the command to stand never came, he squinted up at her peevishly. His knees were really starting to throb now, and the hot air was making his thick tunic stick to him uncomfortably.

Her face was pensive, like she was thinking very hard about something quite complicated. “You are not a knight, are you?”

“No, Your Grace.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Is it because you are too young to be a knight?”

He made a face. “I am too young yet, but even when I am old enough I will never be a knight.” When she raised an eyebrow in askance, he huffed an embarrassed sigh. “I am a bastard, Your Grace. Kings and knights do not like to make knights of bastards.”

Her brow crumpled into a vicious frown. “Who can make knights, Jon Snow?”

“Knights can make knights.” He thought about it for a moment. “Kings can make knights. I think Queens can too.”

“Princesses?” She pushed.

His eyes widened in realisation. “You Grace -”

“I promised to protect you, and you promised to protect me.” She reminded him, not unkindly. “Can you not protect me best when you are a knight? Should I not protect you by knighting you?”

“I really am too young,” He insisted, thinking of all the difficult things Ser Rodrik had to do because he was a knight. “Knight me when I am older, if you still want to.”

She paused, her eyes still narrowed. Finally, she nodded her assent. “When you are old enough, Jon Snow, you shall be knighted and made a member of my personal guard.” The prospect sounded rather terrifying, but he made no protest. Protecting a princess was the kind of thing heroes did, and it would make Robb very jealous. “Arise, Jon Snow of House Stark, sworn protector of House Targaryen.”

He did so, unsteady on his feet. Somehow, he felt heavier, as though she’d laid a physical burden over his shoulders. “Am I allowed to go leave until I am old enough to be knighted?”

“Of course,” She said immediately, smiling as though he’d told a great joke. “Ser William will have to train you so that you are fit enough, obviously, but you may see your family as often as you’d like.”

“That’s very kind of you, Your Grace,” He gestured vaguely behind him, in the general direction that he hoped home was, “But I’m sure Ser Rodrik can train me well enough.”

In an instant, the room and the golden light vanished, replaced in a rush by the grey hustle and bustle of Winterfell, leaving him thoroughly disorientated.

The princess gasped. She still stood in the same place, but now her bare feet sunk into the mud of the courtyard. In her strange dress, with her strange looks amongst the brown and grey, she made a very odd sight.

“What trick have you played on me?” She demanded, her face pale. “Where am I?”

“Winterfell, Your Grace. My home.”

He couldn’t made sense of it all. One moment he was chasing after Robb, then he was meeting a princess and now she didn’t know where she was.

It was a very strange dream indeed.

“Jon!”

He turned and spied Robb waving at him from the tree-line, just past the gates. He looked rather smug, and Jon supposed that was because he hadn’t been caught yet. That wasn’t Jon’s fault though; he was busy swearing himself to a princess.

When he looked back at her to gauge her reaction to his brother, there was nothing where the princess had once stood.

 

\- - - 

 

The next time he saw the princess was that night.

He was thinking about her absentmindedly, pulling his furs up under his chin and wriggling his toes in an effort to get warm. He wondered if she was real, if he really was a squire now. 

Robb had wrinkled his nose when Jon’d told him about the mysterious meeting. He told Jon he didn’t think there was any princess in Kingslanding with silver hair. Robert Baratheon had brown hair, like father, the Queen had golden hair, as did their children.

He’d also insisted that all the Targaryens were dead. Robert Baratheon had slain the Crown Prince on the Trident, and his father and children were all killed by the Lannisters. Maester Luwin would never lie about such things, after all. 

Perhaps she really was just a figment of his imagination. 

“It’s cold.” 

He startled so badly he nearly fell out of bed, his heart pounding. There, her moonbeam hair sprawled over his pillow, glare pinning him in place, was the princess.

“W-what are you —?”

She rolled over and the bed changed under him, transforming the hard mattress and scratchy sheets into silken bedding and pillows as soft as feathers.  The air was heady with perfume, and the sweltering heat was back. Jon felt like he was going to be sick, the world spinning uneasily. 

“Ser William!” She called, “He’s back!”

Jon scrambled out of the bed, hissing when his feet hit cold stone. He looked down and he was back in his bedroom, shivering.  The princess made an irritated sound and reached out to grab his hand. 

They both gasped when she made contact. 

He could see her hand upon him, could see the flex of the bones under her skin, but he felt nothing but cool air upon his wrist. Even when she dug her fingers into him, nothing.  He looked up at her, mouth open in shock. 

She recovered quicker than he, and used the not-quite touch to yank him back to the heat. An old man stood in the doorway of the room, his brow furrowed like Jon’s father when he or Robb did something wrong. 

“Princess, are you well?” His voice was low and scratchy, a hint of authority under it. 

Daenerys gestured to Jon, pointing him out as an intruder even as he tried to make himself look as small as possible. “Ser William. Jon Snow, the boy from earlier, is here.”

Jon steeled himself, but Ser William’s eyes passed over him as though he wasn’t there. His frown deepened, making his wrinkled face appear even older.  “You said his father is Eddard Stark?” 

She nodded sharply. 

Ser William rubbed a hand over his face and walked further into the room, his steps short and tired. “Ask Jon Snow what colour his father’s hair is and how he wears it.” 

Jon frowned.  What a stupid question. 

If her expression was anything to go by, Daenerys seem to think the same. She raised an eyebrow at him nonetheless, prompting him for an answer. 

“Brown.” He said hesitantly. “He ties some of it back and leaves the rest down.”

She snorted. “How boring.”

Ser William eased himself onto the end of the bed, his fingers shaking before he pressed them together. It seemed to Jon that he had trouble staying upright for long periods of time. “What did he say, princess?” 

“Brown. Some up some down.” She parroted, fidgeting. Jon still couldn’t feel her grip on his arm, but he could see her fingers tapping on the bones in his wrist. 

“And what colour is his hair?”

“Black.” Daenerys glanced at him then back to Ser William. “Curly.”

“It’s dark brown.” He corrected, feeling stupid the moment the words left his mouth.

Daenerys rolled her eyes. She was now beginning to remind him an awful lot of Theon. “He thinks it’s dark brown but it looks black.”

Ser William lent forward, a stern tautness to his mouth. “Who is his mother?”

Jon felt his gut curl inwards at the question. 

Lady Stark, for all her kindness towards Robb, did everything she could to remind him that he was not a part of the family, that he was not a Stark. He’d been told ages ago that she was not his mother, that he had no mother, that he was lucky to be living with his father and Robb and baby Sansa. 

“I have no mother.” He spat, wishing he were at home. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep. 

For a moment, he hovered between the princess’ strange rooms and his quarters in Winterfell. The cold was a balm to his skin, cutting through the oppressive heat. Daenerys pulled him back impatiently and he gathered himself to stand at attention by her side. 

“He has no mother.”

Ser William’s demeanour shifted. He lent forward, worry etched into his face.  “Listen to me closely, children. You must tell no one that you can see each other. Not your father, Jon.” Jon wrinkled his nose. Father wouldn’t believe him anyway. “Not your brother.” Well, how was  _ he _ to tell if he told Robb? “They wouldn’t understand, and if you reveal it to them or anyone else, you’ll likely be killed. The both of you.”

Jon’d never had a secret from Robb before, had never known something that could result in death. Old Nan told stories of people who’d died, but no one he knew had ever died. Not even Maester Luwin had died yet, even though he looked like he was a hundred years old.

“I don’t want to die,” He said lowly. Daenerys’ hand traveled down from his wrist and slotted into his. She was trying to give him comfort, but all he felt was fear. 

“Why can’t we tell anyone?” She demanded, her chin tilting up defiantly.

Ser William sighed. “You are a Targaryen, Daenerys. You and and your brother are the last living dragons; there are many who would gladly rid the world of you. Jon Snow is not one of them, I am sure, but if he talks of his connection with you, there are people who use him to find you.”

“My father would never harm anyone, not if they hadn’t done anything wrong.” Jon piped up, forgetting his fear momentarily. “He’s the best man in all of Westeros.”

Daenerys turned to him, expression dark. “Eddard Stark is the usurper’s dog, a cold-blooded killer who would murder children for power. How can he be the best the Seven Kingdoms has to offer?”

Outrage surged through Jon, hot and acidic. 

They flicked between Winterfell, then the hot place, the Winterfell, over and over until he felt sick. 

“My father is not a dog. He fought to kill the Mad King, who would have burnt down Westeros if he had not been stopped. He wants no power.”

Daenerys’ face twisted into a snarl. “Liar.” 

The cold of Winterfell became dominant, cutting through the perfumed air. Even though he longed for the reprieve, he barely suppressed a shiver. 

“Children!” Ser William cut through Jon’s retort, pulling them back to the hot room. At his side, Daenerys gasped for air, looking as sick as he felt.

Ser William was kneeling in front of them now, his watery eyes darting between Daenerys and the empty space next to her, where he probably supposed Jon was. He bit down on his rage for a moment, at loath to disrespect a knight.

“There is no time to be fighting each other. You have a connection that many would kill for, one that many  _ will _ try to kill you for if you don’t band together.” He looked somewhere around Jon’s shoulder. “Your father is indeed an honourable man, Jon Snow, but you must keep Daenerys a secret. If you don’t, she will die.” 

Daenerys stiffened at his side. She had dropped his hand when he’d proclaimed his father honourable, so now he reached out, only half-reluctantly. 

He felt nothing under his palm, but she turned to look at him, expression unreadable. 

“I’ll keep it a secret.” He whispered. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Robb?” 

He shook his head. “Not even Robb.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, her expression serious. Then she nodded.

It was only after he was back in his own bed in Winterfell, hours after Daenerys had bid him leave, that he realised he’d never told her about Robb.

 

\- - - 

 

For a while after that, he didn’t see Daenerys at all. 

At first he kept an eye out, sure she was going to pull him to her strange hot home without a moment’s notice. Every time he glanced somewhere, he half-expected her to be in front of him when he turned back, scowling at him.

But, after weeks of nothing, she started to slip from his mind. 

Soon enough, he was absorbed back into the life at Winterfell, consumed by pitfalls the way only a small boy could be. After all, it was difficult to remember why he should be afraid of talking about the princess when Theon was pushing him and calling him  _ bastard  _ whenever Robb wasn’t around.

His biggest gripe was that playing with Robb was becoming less and less common, as their father had decided that it was time that they began regular lessons with Maester Luwin.

Spending afternoons under Maester Luwin’s watchful eye when he could see the sun shining through the window was maddening. Lessons were so terribly boring, filled with all kinds of pointless things like practicing letters and reading long, dull passages. The drudgery was only heightened when Maester Luwin took to placing Robb on the other side of the library; at least when they were next to each other they could exchange bored looks.

He was scowling at down at his misshapen letters when a blow of sadness struck him low in the gut. He just had the time to gasp in a shocked breath before he was hurtled to Daenerys, landing on his feet this time. 

She was curled up in the middle of her bed, facing away from him. Sadness filled every inch of him, and he realised as he watched her shoulders shake that it was hers. 

Carefully, trying not to disturb her, he perched on the end of her bed. 

She didn’t startle at his sudden appearance, but pressed herself deeper into the bed. Her sadness covered everything, invading his senses like a smell. 

“What happened?” He asked, kicking his legs awkwardly against the bed post as he tried to hold back tears. On some level, he knew  _ he _ wasn’t sad, but it didn’t seem to matter to his prickling eyes. 

Daenerys let out a soft sob. “Ser William, he -” 

She cut herself off, turning so her face was completely covered by her pillow, and Jon suddenly knew exactly what had happened.

Ser William, shrivelled up and swallowed by the expanse of his bed. His face stiff and white, eyes glassy and unseeing. Someone crying. Viserys snarling something in his ear. A bruisingly tight grip on his shoulder. His grip on Ser William’s cold fingers broken when he was wrenched away.

The sadness deepened, finally coming from a recognisably internal place.

He shifted backwards on the bed and curled up behind her, his shins lightly touching her heels.  Daenerys didn’t turn to him, but he could feel her gratitude. It floated underneath the sadness and bound them together at the place where they touched.

Reflexively, he shut his eyes and concentrated on what was coming from her. He traced her back to a golden thread, right at the corner of his mind. Without thinking, he tugged on it. 

Instantly, he was overwhelmed with memories of kind Ser William, of awful Viserys and the handful of people she’d known. Daenerys was a princess, but she was lonely and frightened, and had been for a very long time.

He shuffled closer instinctively, placing his forehead on her neck. Even though she’d lost Ser William, she wouldn’t be alone, not anymore.  A flood of appreciation came from her and a strange warmth settled in his belly. He’d never taken care of anyone before - no one had ever wanted him to - but he’d take care of her as long as she let him. 

For a long moment, they lay still, basking in the comfort of finally being seen, of finally having someone. 

“Daenerys!” A shrill voice had them both rocketing up, Jon banging his elbow hard on the wooden table as he was shoved back to Winterfell unceremoniously.

He was breathing hard, heart banging against his chest. Before him, his uneven letters seemed to swim on the page. 

“Jon,” Maester Luwin’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He blinked twice and tears stained the page. 

Though the weight of Maester Luwin’s hand grounded him, he could still feel the pull of Daenerys’ emotions in his gut, a mixture of sadness, fear and anger.

His father told him he was never to lie, especially not to his teachers. Jon’d done his best not to, despite Robb’s insistence on many an occasion that one lie in the name of getting more dessert wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Jon didn’t like to lie, didn’t like to keep secrets, especially not ones that burnt him up inside with the urge to tell to anyone who would listen.

For a moment, he envisioned telling Maester Luwin everything. If his father knew about the danger Daenerys was in, he would surely travel to her and rescue her; his father was the most honourable man in the whole of Westeros, everyone told him so. He might even bring her back to Winterfell, and she would be able to play games with him and Robb.

Ser William’s words rang in his head like a bell, shattering the pretty image he’d created.

_ You must keep Daenerys a secret. If you don’t, she will die. _

The vision changed. Now he could see Daenerys’ tear-stained face as Ser Rodrik dragged her into the depths of Winterfell amidst the jeers of the gathered smallfolk. He could see his father, face distorted with an unfamiliar cruelty as he condemned her to living beyond the Wall, where the wildlings would surely kill her. 

“Jon?” Maester Luwin knelt at his side, watery eyes filled with concern.

Jon mustered his courage and wiped his sleeve over his wet cheeks. “I’m alright.”


	2. Age Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much the response to the last chapter blew me away! I'm sorry this update was so long after the first - I've just finished my semester at uni and exams really swept me away for a second there. I hope you continue to enjoy and comment on this story - your lovely words were my main motivators!

_Age Ten_

 

 _Thwack._  

“Your feet are too close together.”

_Thwack._

“You need to move your whole upper body when you strike, Dany. You don’t have enough force when you swing like that.”

_Thwack._

“Look, you’ll hurt yourself if you don’t listen to me. Just - I dunno, try and _feel_ what I’m doing.”

_Thwack._

“I know it’s hard and I know you’re tired, but if you don’t practice -”

_Thwack!_

She collapsed onto the ground, exhausted, and glared up at the sky. “Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?” She spat, blowing hair out of her eyes impatiently. 

Jon heaved a put upon sigh and lowered his practice sword, giving the poor tree he was whacking a reprieve. 

Though they practiced her swordwork three times a week, he never seemed to understand how difficult it was to spar with no sword. He could correct _his_ bloody footwork and grip because he actually had something to work off; all she had was her imagination and his memories. 

“I’m not doing this to piss you off,” He began, slowly lowering himself to the ground beside her, careful not to touch her, like she was some kind of irritable bear. “If there’s trouble, you need to know how to defend yourself.”

“It won’t matter will it?” She hit back, “No matter how hard I swing it, the only sword I have is imaginary, and no one’s going to be hurt by something that isn’t real, are they?”

He propped himself up on his elbow, turning to her. Without looking, she knew he had a concerned look on his stupid face. She was so sick of him pitying her. “That’s why I keep telling you to get one, idiot. Even just a small dagger would -”

She gave a frustrated growl and flung herself up into a sitting position, turning her back on him to watch the tree line. “Well Jon, you should have said earlier! I’ll just go to the markets tomorrow then, shall I? Of course I’d have to somehow knock Viserys out so he won’t follow and belt me, then find a way to sneak out of the bloody fortress he’s got us in, then somehow find a single bloody dragon to buy a stupid dagger. Then there’s the small matter of getting back in and hiding the damn thing from him like he doesn’t go through my things all the time, as well as explaining the missing coin. Brilliant, Snow, truly.”

Now it was his turn to be petulant, a dark moodiness clouding the usually bright glow of the bond. “There’s no need to be cruel,” He said childishly, flopping onto his back again. “I swear you’re worse than Theon.”

“If I’m as cruel as Theon, you’re as stupid.”

Jon refused to reply to that - though she could hear exactly what he wanted to say - so they fell into silence, stewing in their anger. 

“When’s Robb going to be home?” She asked finally, fiddling with the ragged hem of her dress. Viserys only bought her new clothes when hers fell apart completely, but not without flying into a rage first. She wondered idly when he would notice that she was down to one gown and two pairs of slippers, and if he’d mind if she wore a servant’s garb instead. 

“In a moon or so.” Jon’s voice was monotone, but a note of suspicion cut through his anger. “Why?” 

She scowled, automatically pushing down on her affection for Robb before Jon could catch wind of it. It wasn’t as though she liked him like _that_ , it was just Robb seemed to be the only person in the universe who could say more than ten things in a row without getting on her nerves. When he and his father were gone, Jon got a thousand times more stubborn and irritating, and not even Arya could cheer him up. 

He got jealous of Robb sometimes, a grave and guarded secret he managed to keep from her until he was eight and it came bursting out. He hated himself for it, so she hid the fact that Robb was her favourite, refusing to add to his guilt.

“Because you’re a right grump when he’s not around to smack you about.” She said, clambering to her feet. “Right, are we going to explore the woods or not?”

Jon frowned up at her, still lying on his back. “I thought we were going to train all day.”

She rolled her eyes. “You promised Robb that you would find a place to get away from Theon, didn’t you?” She hesitated for a fraction before she held out a hand to him, raising a brow when he eyed it suspiciously. “Come on, grumpy. I can’t go without you.”

He glared at her for a moment longer before he took her hand. 

 

\- - - 

 

“Come on Jon,” Ser Rodrik called, “Focus.”

Jon gave a strangled snarl and parried Theon’s blow, dancing out of range when he tried to hit back.

He was doing his utmost to concentrate solely on the match, but his hands shook and he could barely find his footing before Theon knocked him off balance again. Just to ensure he was distracted, she forced her way to the front of the bond so he was totally aware of her. 

“ _Focus_ Jon,” She parrotted, wiggling her slippered feet where they rested against a post. The skirts of her gown hung down around her, exposing her smallclothes, arms steady where they held her up. She could just barely see Jon through the sheer material of her dress, and grinned smugly when he stumbled under the weight of Theon’s sword. 

Theon’s next blow found its mark, and, though he paid her no outward heed, Jon was quickly overpowered, his mind a mess of distraction. 

After Ser William’s death, their bond tore open and solidified.

At first, it had been a wonderful novelty, a way to escape Viserys and experience a childhood with Jon and Robb. Quickly though, they realised they couldn’t really escape each other; no matter what she was doing, she could feel his thoughts, humming away in the back of her mind. More than that though, their emotions ran together sometimes, bleeding so thoroughly into one another that she lost what she was meant to be feeling to what Jon was feeling. Even when they were sleeping, she was influenced by his dreams or lack thereof. 

The consequence of having a live connection to someone else was that it was easy to get on each other’s nerves. Getting on each other's nerves was something she and Jon excelled at, and he’d discovered the hard way that she enjoyed coming up with creative ways to express her ire at him.

After their spectacular fight yesterday - he wanted to go to the Wall when he was of age, she wanted him to come to her - she’d been doing stupid, embarrassing things to make him just as infuriated as she was. 

First, she’d draped herself over Theon’s back at mealtime, running her fingers through his hair and making lovey-dovey expressions. Jon’d eventually become so beet red that he had to excuse himself, scrambling to get away from Lady Stark’s disapproving expression. 

Next, she threw out dirty insults at everyone he came across in the halls, using the most filthy language they had learnt from men in taverns. He’d nearly broken when she called Hodor a ‘big ugly motherfucker’, anger finally outweighing his embarrassment. Still, her fury was not abated. 

Now, she held herself up by her arms in the hope that the sight of her smallclothes next to Ser Rodrik’s big head was enough to throw him off. 

Jon stumbled again, and Theon took the moment of unsteadiness to sweep his legs out from under him. Still focussed on her and how embarrassing she was being, Jon had no time to balance himself and went sprawling to the ground. 

She winced, feeling a tiny, _tiny_ smidge of regret as the pain radiating from his arse and elbow came through the bond, made all the worse when paired with the dozens of bruises forming on his ribs, arms and legs.

She kicked off the post, landing gracefully on her hands and knees, and turned to watch him pant and scowl at the sky, sword clutched in hand.

“Up you get Snow,” Ser Rodrik barked unforgivingly, tapping a wooden practice sword against his boot impatiently.

A holt bolt of shame coursed through Jon. She bit her lip as he squeezed his eyes shut to keep a sudden bout of tears in. He was better than Theon - everyone knew he was - and to lose to him so quickly for seemingly no reason made a rotten mixture of anger and humiliation boil up inside him. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. It was difficult to keep a grip on her righteous anger when she felt how upset he was, but she was viciously stubborn. 

“Little lad’s tired is all,” Theon gloated, “Fighting me is hard work, you know.”

Jon snapped. 

He surged to his feet and swung at Theon with a yell, knocking him off-balance with a hard blow to the shoulder. Before he could recover, Jon thwacked him on the head, getting a high cry of pain for his trouble. 

He raised his sword again, but before he could strike, Ser Rodrik crossed the yard in two long strides and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. With one sharp tug, the old knight yanked him away, his normally paper white face an unhealthy shade of puce.

With a sharp tug, Jon was pulled only a hairsbreadth from Ser Rodrik’s bushy moustache, every wrinkle in his large face filled with anger. “Your father will hear about this, bastard.”

He let go of him just as suddenly, sending Jon toppling to the ground. With one last disgusted look, the old knight grabbed Theon by his elbow and tugged him from the courtyard, muttering about Maester Luwin cleaning the gash on his head that was bleeding sluggishly.

An uncharacteristically awkward silence fell over the two of them, though the bond was anything but silent. 

Regret covered her like a second skin, and even though she was still angry at his insistence about going to the Wall, she knew she’d been unreasonable.

She sucked in a breath, steeling herself, and started towards him. He didn’t move, not even when she was half an arms length from him, glaring down at his mud-caked breeches, arse deep in muck. 

“Jon,” She began, an apology on the tip of her tongue.

Her voice seemed to trigger the animalistic rage in him again, and he lunged to his feet, glaring at her venomously. “That was your fault,” He spat, sounding so uncannily like Viserys she shrank back from him, some primal part of her preparing for a blow.

She recovered herself quickly, remembering that no matter how angry he could get, Jon wasn’t Viserys. “It’s not my fault,” She hissed, anger returning, “You’re just not as good as Theon is.” 

It’s a bald faced lie and they both knew it, but it was enough to make Jon’s face crumple, bottom lip trembling as he bit back tears. 

“I hate you,” He said, voice cracking. “I wish you’d just go away.” 

She rolled her eyes, nails biting into her palms as she tamped down on her own wave of tears. “You’re being stupid.”

The sorrow vanished from his expression, replaced by a harsh mixture of bitterness and rage. Quick as anything, he closed the distance between them, grabbed her shoulders and shoved her as far away as he could. 

Instead of hitting the ground, she fell back to the quiet, dank room Viserys had left her in, the thick scent of mud replaced by the dour smell of mould. 

Fury swelled in her, hot and unstoppable, crushing her regret like a flower underneath a boot. Jon was nothing more than a horrible little boy who couldn’t handle losing, and her sympathy was _entirely_ wasted upon him. 

She leapt to her feet, ready to jump back and shove him in turn, but when she tried, she found the door to Winterfell shut tightly, the bond dim and quiet. 

Shock hit her low in her in the gut.

Usually, she and Jon woke up at the same time simply because once the bond was alight, it pulled her out of sleep. On rare occasions, when he was truly exhausted, he managed to keep sleeping and the bond hung limp between them, just as it was now.

But Jon couldn’t have fallen asleep so quickly, which meant something was wrong. 

She clenched her eyes shut so she could focus and tugged on the thread, trying to jolt him back to her. When a gentle pull didn’t work, she grew more frantic and insistent, panic rising in her throat to choke her. 

“Jon!”

The moment his name left her lips, she snapped her jaw shut so quickly she bit her tongue. A hot flash of fear coursed through her, matched by the thick tang of blood filling her mouth. 

When she wasn’t with Jon in Winterfell, Viserys could hear everything.

The thump of someone on the stairs had her scrambling up, racing to fling herself down onto the narrow cot in the corner of the room. In her haste, she smashed her elbow on the wall, dull pain echoing up her arm. 

No sooner had she stilled did the door fling open, hitting the wall with an almighty crash. She curled further in on herself, trying seem as small as possible.

Viserys crossed the room in three strides and hauled her up by the arm. When she refused to look at him, he dug his fingers into her flesh and twisted, making her cry out in pain and meet his eyes. “What did I ask of you, dear sister?” He snarled, eyes bulging out of his head. “What is the one thing I asked of you?”

She shrank away from him and fumbled for Jon, swallowing a wave of tears when she found the bond unresponsive. 

Enraged further by her silence, Viserys jerked her close, pushing his face into her space. “I asked you to be quiet, didn’t I?” He shook her, spittle flying out of his mouth and hitting her on the cheek, “Didn’t I? I ask of you one thing, and you cannot obey? After all I’ve done for you? You’ve woken the dragon now,” He snarled, eyes bulging out of his head. 

He reared back and swung, striking her clean across her jaw and cheek. She fell back with a cry, hitting her head on the wall behind her. 

Pain rocketed through her head, and she blinked, bright light fluttering across her vision. Jon was by her side in an instant, muttering to her in a low voice, his words urgent but indecipherable. The bond was bright, alight with his worry. 

Viserys, clearly satisfied by her pain, rose and stalked out of the room, leaving her curled against the wall with a throbbing pain in her face and the ghost of Jon’s hand on her head.

“...a mad man.” Jon’s voice came into focus through the ringing in her ears, his tone full of fury. “I’ll kill him, I swear it.” 

But she was in no mood for his vengeful words, had no stomach for his righteous wrath on her behalf. She was tired, she was in pain, and she hated him just as much as he’d hated her not a few moments ago. 

She glared up at him, and he backed off, surprised by the venom in her gaze. Without hesitation, she reached out and shoved him, the sight of his shocked face as he fell back to Winterfell causing something in her gut curl unpleasantly. 

It wasn’t difficult to figure out how to shut the bond off - it was like slamming a door shut - but it wasn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be. The absence of him ached, especially when she was in sore need of a gentle word or two. 

She pressed her face into the cot, willing herself not to cry. Her head throbbed in time with her heart, and there were still flickers of light dancing across her vision. 

Just as quickly as her anger had risen, it subsided, leaving her alone with her pain. She hadn’t been alone in years, and she was unused to the swirl of her thoughts without the company of the steady ebb and flow of Jon’s complaints and worries. 

Before long, she loosened her grip on the thread, and he was back, crouched on the floor beside the bed, full of contrition.  

“I’m so sorry Dany,” He said, “I’m sorry. I was angry and I didn’t think and I -”

“I’m not Robb,” She choked out, digging her fingernails into her palms to keep yet more tears at bay, “I don’t have anyone else. I only have you. You can’t shut me out.” 

“I _know_.” His voice broke, and she could feel the burning of tears in his eyes, his regret. “I know. I’m an idiot. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

She sniffled once and turned to face him, bottom lip trembling when his eyes met hers. “You can’t leave me, Jon. You can’t. Even if you don’t come to me, you can’t leave.” 

He nodded furiously, reaching out for her. “Never.” 

Though she felt nothing but the cot under her palm, she drew comfort from the sight of his fingers laced with hers, of his dark eyes on her. 

“Dany,” He said carefully, “You have to leave.” She scowled and tried to take her hand back but he chased her, gripping until the tips of his fingers went white. “You can come here, and I’ll take care of you.”

“I can’t.” 

She felt anxiety build in her chest at the thought of leaving her brother. Yes, he was awful most of the time, but she would be dead without him; she doubted that she would have made it longer than a month or two after the death of Ser William if it weren’t for his determination. As much as he scared her, as much as he hurt her, she still owed him everything. 

“Yes you can,” Jon insisted, “You can meet Robb, and Arya. I know you’re still not sure that Father will help us, but we don’t have to tell him right away, we can ask - ”

“Jon,” She hissed, careful to keep her voice low, “How would I even make it to a port? The nearest one has to be a week’s worth of walking away!”

He shoved down the flash of doubt as quickly as it crossed the bond, but he wasn’t quick enough to hide it from her. “Then we’ll ask someone to help you. You like Marie, don’t you? The one who works in the kitchens and feeds the beggar children? If you ask her, I’m sure she’ll help.” 

She sat up, and he let her hand go finally. Her head throbbed, and it hurt to move her elbow, but she was fed, she was clothed, she had a roof over her, and that was a sight better than what she’d had in the past. There was no telling if she would make it out of the doors of the house she was in, let alone to the port. Even then, she had to make it to Westeros, then from White Harbour to Winterfell, all without dying or being caught by Viserys who was sure to come after her. 

It was impossible. 

“I can’t.” She said lowly, a tear finally slipping out. 

He clambered up onto the bed, sorrow pouring into the bond. “I hate being so far from you.” He whispered, reaching out to take her hand again. “I hate him.” 

“He’s your King,” She corrected tiredly. 

“He’s _not_ ,” He snapped, tone more vicious than he usually let it get. “He’s my enemy.”

She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “You swore yourself to House Targaryen, Jon Snow. You can’t tell me Theon hit so hard you forgot that.”

He was in no mood for jokes, meeting her gaze with a blaze of fury in his eyes. “I swore myself to you, Dany. I swore I would protect you. He hurts you, which makes him my enemy.”

“I love him,” She reminded him, and he flinched. “He’s my brother, and when we take back our throne, we shall be -”

Jon ripped his hand away and shot to his feet, his mind so messy she could barely pick up on one coherent thought. “I won’t go to the Wall,” He said firmly, straightening his shoulders. “As soon as I am of age, I will come to you. My father will help me do that, and may even provide me with a guide to get to you.” 

She looked up at him and smiled gently. The impossibility of either of them making it to the other grew in her mind, wrapping itself around her hope and clenching tightly. “Alright,” She swallowed the lump in her throat and pretended not to feel so completely lost. “I shall await your arrival every day.”

He stared back at her, his own hope similarly crushed underfoot. “And I, Dany.”


	3. Age Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i'm going the canon route. as much as i'd love jon to go to her, i just think it wouldn't work logistically. i also like angst and there's more angst in the canon than the divergence. hope you all enjoy it! thank you for your kind words once again :)

_ Age Thirteen _

 

“I don’t wanna hear about Aegon again,” Arya grumbled, scowling at the ground petulantly. “Can’t you tell us a better story? One you haven’t told us before?”

From his perch on a tree stump across the clearing, Maester Luwin squinted at her as if he had only just realised she was there. “Lady Arya,” Arya squirmed at the title, scowl deepening. “Correct me if I am wrong, but aren’t you meant to be with Septa Mordane?”

Arya scooted herself along the ground on her hands, only stopping when her back was pressed against Jon’s legs. When she had nowhere left to go but up onto the log he was sitting, she shrugged sheepishly. “She said I could hear some of the lessons.” 

Maester Luwin raised an eyebrow but didn’t press, allowing her the lie. “Alright then, a break from the Conquerer?” 

Robb, who was doing a good job at acting like he couldn’t care less about the lesson (anything Theon deemed boring Robb dutifully lost interest in), barely looked up from where he was twirling his practice sword. “I don’t care, but we have to train with Ser Rodrik soon.”

“I care,” Arya insisted, and glanced up at Jon to get his support. 

He ruffled her hair teasingly, but nodded when Maester Luwin turned his gaze upon him. “A new lesson would be nice.”

“Very well,” Maester Luwin tipped his head to the side, furrowing his brow. “I shall meet you in the middle.” Arya narrowed her eyes, and Jon swallowed a laugh at the sight of her suspicious expression as the Maester paused for effect. “I shall tell you about the lesser known part of Aegon’s conquering.”

Arya threw her head back dramatically, accidentally smashing into Jon’s knee bone. He hissed, sharp pain echoing up his leg. She shot him an apologetic look, and leant into his careful fingers on the back of her head, checking for injury. 

After confirming she was alright, he jumped to Daenerys. 

She was still huddled against the clay wall, in the same position she’d been when he left her that morning. Viserys had long since abandoned his spot next to her, but a quick once-over told him that his absence had improved her mood not one whit.

“Dany,” He whispered, cautious of the headache that  _ thump-thump-thumped _ behind her eyes, “Maester Luwin is going to teach us a new lesson.” 

She looked up at him through her lashes, face covered in a fine layer of dust. He could feel the ache in her arms and feet, the places where her muscles strained and protested, the pain in her neck from the night she’d spent propped up against the wall. 

“Do I appear to be in the mood to enjoy a story?” She croaked, turning her face away from him and into the wall, exhaustion coating her. 

“I know you’re tired,” He sympathised, shifting so he could run a gentle hand down her arm, “But this may be the last time we can learn from the Maester.”

She turned back, a frown settling over her fine features.

He gave her a smile, hoping it wasn’t too weak. “I plan to see my father before the feast tonight to ask for his permission to leave.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him, her sharp gaze seeing right to the center of his worries, his doubts, his fears. He knew she could see his fears, but it was backed up with equal fervor by determination. 

“Alright,” She relented finally, holding her hand out for him to take. 

“—reason I have not shared this particular part of Aegon’s life with you yet is because it is widely regarded to be a fanciful invention, one later Targaryens used to embellish their House.” 

Daenerys perched unsteadily on the log beside Jon, a small smile gracing her lips when she caught sight of Arya, her head still tipped back into his hand. 

“If it’s not real, then why tell us at all?” Robb pointed out skeptically, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

Maester Luwin gave a sage nod. “Fair point. It is true that I cannot tell you what is truth and what is fiction. All I can tell you is what was written in the books, and it is up to you whether or not you choose to believe it.”

He eyed all of them again, daring someone to speak up and give him an excuse to shoo them all away into the care of someone else. Even Robb sat quietly and waited, unwilling to admit that he enjoyed the long story-like lessons as much as he pretended to dislike them. 

“Alright then. As you all know, Aegon and his sisters —”

“Visenya and Rhaenys,” Arya piped up excitedly, grin splitting her face in half. Though she had been the one to ask for a new story, there was nothing that could get her riled up like a story about Visenya.

“Yes, Visenya and Rhaenys, thank you Arya,” Maester Luwin said graciously, “The three Targaryen siblings brought the Seven Kingdoms to heel, an unprecedented feat of power, cunning and wit. Many years later, shortly after the Dance of the Dragons, it was dictated to the Maesters that the reason why Aegon and his sisters were able to conquer Westeros was because they shared their minds.”

Beside him, Daenerys’ spine went so ramrod straight that, for a moment, he was afraid she’d broken something. It took a moment for the words to sink in, but once they did his hand tightened on Arya’s head until she yanked it free, whipping around briefly to glare at him. 

_Sharing minds?_

Jon looked at Daenerys, who began to smile so wide her cheeks ached. 

“They shared their _minds_?” Robb lowered his sword slightly to frown at the Maester, voice beginning to curl with disdain. Jon could hardly hear him over the pounding of his heart. 

“Yes,” Maester Luwin seemed to be just as convinced by the story as Robb, smiling ruefully even as he shocked Jon and Daenerys to their cores, “It was dictated exactly thus: on Rhaenys’ fifth birthday, she tripped and fell, sustaining a wound to her arm. The moment she fell, Aegon and Visenya rushed to her side from different rooms, though Rhaenys had yet to make a sound. After that moment, all three could hear each other from opposite sides of the battlefield, could communicate without words, could see each other as clear as day even when in different castles.”

“It’s the same thing,” Daenerys whispered, rising to her feet slowly, eyes fixed on Maester Luwin. “It’s the same thing we have, Jon.” 

“But you don’t believe it?” Robb pressed, laying his sword down to evaluate Maester Luwin with a critical eye. 

Maester Luwin considered the question for a moment. “I know that the Targaryens possessed a great number of unfathomable gifts; they were dragon riders, leaders of Westeros, builders of great cities and structures. Though it would be fair to question why knowledge of the gift and its various possessors throughout the Targaryen dynasty only came out after the great war between Targaryens, I am not sure that is enough to entirely disprove the existence of such a gift.” 

“It would be the most powerful weapon in a battle,” Arya interjected, grinning sharply, fully drawn into the story now, “Of course only the greatest of the Targaryens would have such an ability.” 

“Ah, but it was not just the great Targaryens,” Maester Luwin corrected, “In fact, more often the gift happened between Targaryens who never amounted to anything; distant relatives or siblings of Kings and Queens, lesser nobility who married into lower houses and went off to different parts of Westeros. The gift most often occurred between those who were taken away from each other, and the Gods attempted to right fate’s wrong.” He paused, sorrow falling over his face, “The Mad King was convinced that he should have had the gift. Many say the lack of it — the lack of any trait that would make him a true dragon — fuelled his madness, his drive to prove himself a worthy Targaryen of old.” 

Daenerys bit her lip, and hurt swelled in tandem with shame. Jon reached out as subtly as he could and took her hand, shooting her a quick smile. 

_ You are not your father, _ he tried to tell her,  _ just as you are not your brother. _

She smiled back, and together they turned back to Maester Luwin. 

“Despite so many who possessed the gift amounting to nothing, each person who did always had the possibility of becoming great. In fact, the books say that once those with the gift achieve incredible things, the gift ceases, because the need for the Gods to lend a piece of their power to mortals is gone.” Daenerys shot him a worried look. “In the case of Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys, as soon as Westeros bowed, the connection between them faded until it was cut off altogether.” 

Daenerys sucked in a breath. “That means we will lose each other once Viserys takes our throne back, doesn’t it? What will happen when we get bored, or if someone tries to attack me or you?”

Jon shrugged minutely. 

As far as he was concerned, the connection being cut off was years away, and by the time Daenerys became great and took back her throne, he would already be at her side. Surely they wouldn’t miss the connection all that much. 

Then something occurred to him. 

“The gift, does it only happen between two Targaryens?” 

Robb shot him a look, like he couldn’t believe he was actually believing the story.

Maester Luwin glanced over, surprised by the line of questioning. “There was a young Targaryen boy who shared the gift with a young man who hailed from Dorne, but it was discovered that he had Targaryen blood somewhere in his ancestry.”

Daenerys frowned, shifting slightly. “But you’re not a Targaryen.” She pointed out, ignoring his eye roll. “Maybe that means your Mum was —”

“Well, wasn’t that such a beautiful,  _ obviously _ made-up story,” All four children jumped up at the sound of Theon’s familiar scathing voice. He stood at the entrance to the small clearing, his face twisted up with a sneer. “Stark, Snow — Ser Rodrik’s about to come after you himself if you don’t get to the yard. Horseface, the Septa’s been shouting the castle down for you. Sansa ratted you out.” 

Arya’s face was darkened by a fierce, black scowl. “I hate her,” She snarled, shrugging Jon off when he tried to catch her arm and give her a hug, stomping past Theon furiously. 

“We better get a move on, Snow,” Robb said, only half-reluctantly, just as aware as Jon of the tongue lashing they were in for. He too started off in the direction of Winterfell, twirling his practice sword as he went. 

Jon stayed rooted to the spot, turning back to Maester Luwin when Theon and Robb disappeared into the trees. “Your books, Maester, did they tell you what happened if one of the people died whilst the bond was open?”

Daenerys made a soft sound, like Jon had punched the air out of her.

Maester Luwin considered him for a moment, eyes sweeping him up and down like he was up for examination. “There is not much that can be believed in those books when it comes to explaining such things, Jon.”

He sagged.

There was a very real chance that either one of them would die long before they could come together, and he wanted to know what it would be like; his imagination could only carry him so far. 

He turned and walked to the edge of the clearing, twisting the rest of Maester Luwin’s words over and over in his head, trying to make sense of them. 

Just before Daenerys jumped back to her hard wall, and Jon disappeared into the foliage, Maester Luwin cleared his throat. “I would venture to say that the closest explanation lies in the story of Rhaena and Aegon, the siblings of the great King Jaehaerys I. They possessed the gift, and were married by King Aenys because of it.” The Maester grimaced, and Jon recalled the rest of the story, of their union sparking a terrible rebellion and the King dying of grief. “Eventually, Aegon fell in battle against the usurper, and it was said that Rhaena was driven mad by the loss of him.” 

Daenerys clenched her jaw, hard. Jon struggled to keep composed. 

There were so many opportunities for him to face death on his journey to her, so many chances where death could grab him by the throat and drag him under, leaving Daenerys to face Viserys without him. 

“Yet she recovered,” Maester Luwin went on, “She endured much hardship and strife, including a forced marriage to the man whom had killed Aegon, but she recovered. She had two daughters depending on her, and she had an extraordinary amount of fight and fire within her. It was always said that of the two, she was the stronger.”

“So she was able to live without him?” Jon pressed, “Even after a lifetime of sharing her mind with him?”

“Yes,” The Maester said, narrowing his eyes. “More than that; she prospered.” 

Jon nodded to himself, before excusing himself from Maester Luwin, starting off through the trees. 

He knew well enough who the stronger one was between the two of them — that much had been obvious even before he declared himself for her — and felt an immeasurable weight lift off his shoulders. 

What a comfort to know that if he died, Daenerys would still go on living and ruling.

 

\- - - 

 

When he finally mustered the courage to climb the stairs to his father's solar, it was not as empty as he hoped it would be. 

Lady Stark sat in her chair, needlework in her lap, and did not look up even when Ned greeted Jon at the door. It seemed that his father wished his wife to be witness to his bastard son debasing himself. 

Jon sucked in a breath and stopped in the middle of the room, waiting until Ned lowered himself into his big chair beside Lady Stark, smiling at him tiredly when he was situated. 

“Go on then, Jon.” 

He prepared each one of his arguments in his head one more time, lining them up neatly in order of importance. “Father, I ask you for enough coin to guarantee myself safe travel to Pentos.” 

Ned’s open expression collapsed, and just as soon as he’d sunk into comfort, he got to his feet and crossed the room. Before he could say anything, Lady Stark lowered her needlework and raised her head to fix him with an icy glare. “You ask for too much.” 

Jon burned with the shame of it, his pride wailing at being forced to ask for anything in her presence. He tilted his chin up defiantly, more determined than ever. “I will leave Winterfell, Lady Stark, and I will not return for a great number of years, if at all. Is that not what you have always wished for?”

Her lip curled infinitesimally, every inch of her full of scathing. As she opened her mouth, Ned grabbed his attention by clapping his shoulder with a heavy hand. When he looked up at his father, he saw with great regret that Ned’s grey eyes were full of sorrow.

“You are young yet, Jon. Why is that you want to go?” 

He looked up at Ned, every inch of him full of love, of honour, of strength. Though he had not always been the father Jon wanted, he had always tried to do what was best for him, and had always loved him despite the blight he was upon his otherwise spotless honour. 

“I wish to see the world,” He said lamely, thinking of Daenerys shut away in her room, longing for the freedom he was given so easily. “There’s so much I’ve not seen, and I hope to make something of myself so that when I come back, you can be proud of me.” 

Ned’s expression softened, and Jon caught a glimmer of pain as it flickered through his eyes. He lowered until they were at eye level, and cupped his face tenderly. “I am already proud of you, Jon. More than you can know.”

He could practically hear Daenerys snorting, her voice full of laughter as she sang  _ I told you so! _ in that awful put-on voice she knew he hated. Even though he’d asked her to stay away, he suddenly wished for her hand in his, reassuring him that running from his family was the right thing to do. 

The hard truth of it was this: he didn’t want to leave Winterfell. 

His father protected him, loved him, and he had so much left to learn from both Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. He could beat both Theon and Robb at swordplay, but he was still no good against Ser Rodrik. Daenerys was fluent in Valerian, which meant he was too, but she interacted with so few people that he had little idea what people outside of Winterfell were like. He didn’t think he was ready to venture across the world to find her, didn’t think he was ready to leave Arya, Father, Robb and Bran behind. 

What if Daenerys was right and he never made it to her? What would his father think then? Would he blame himself for letting Jon go? Would Arya hate him for dying without her at his side? Would Robb miss him? Would Bran remember him? What would become of Daenerys if he died? Being alive in Winterfell was better than being dead in Essos, wasn’t it?

Jon cleared his throat and tried to seem strong as doubt choked him viciously. “I am a bastard, Lord Stark, but in Essos they don’t care so much about that sort of thing. I would come back —” He paused and looked down at his feet, thinking of all the ways in which he could be killed. “I would come back if I was able to.” 

Ned heaved a sigh and pushed a wayward curl back from Jon’s forehead. “I know you think yourself a man already, son, but you are still young yet. You have much to learn from your teachers, from me, and from the North. If you leave Westeros now, I fear your journey would be over quickly, and that is not something I will allow to happen, do you understand me?” 

Jon looked at him, desperation filling him. As much as he dreaded leaving Winterfell, he dreaded the idea of leaving against his father’s wishes more. “I won’t die,” He pleaded, “I’ll be careful.” 

“You cannot promise such a thing,” Ned corrected, rising to his full height. “You can come to me again once you are of age, Jon, but my answer is the same as it was when you begged to be sent to the Wall not three years ago now.”

Jon’s eyes filled with tears and he spun on his heel, stopping abruptly when he caught sight of Robb in the doorway. 

Lady Stark rose, placing her needlework on her chair primly. Blinding hatred filled Jon as he realised that she’d known Robb was there, yet she allowed him to debase himself. “You see, Robb? Loving bastards and expecting anything in return but greed and cruelty is an exercise in futility.” 

“Cat!” Ned warned, taking a step toward her, “He is my —”

“Please think about it, Lord Stark,” Jon said once more, not sure he had the patience to listen to them fight over the morality of mistreating him. He walked to the door and carefully stepped past his brother, who looked as though someone had hit him over the head with a large object. 

He got halfway to his quarters, intending to call Daenerys over and discuss what to do, before Robb grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to a harsh stop. Automatically, Daenerys came closer, but he gently pushed her back.

As she was always telling him, it was important to be able to fight your own battles. 

“What in Seven Hells was that?”

“I’m going to leave.” Jon shot him a smile. “The North is too cold for me, in more ways than one. I think Essos might be kinder.”

“And when were you going to tell me?” Robb demanded, his normally warm eyes frosting over, a startling amount of Lady Stark’s coldness creeping into his face. 

Jon bit his lip. “Tonight. I swear.”

Robb’s expression tightened. “Well you can’t go.” Jon sighed tiredly, looking away, but Robb squeezed his arm, fingernails biting into the thick material of Jon’s tunic. “You can’t. What about Arya? Do you really expect she won’t be after you in a week’s time? She’d kill half of Father’s men to get to you, and you know it.” 

Jon ducked his head, sucking in a pained breath. 

Arya. 

He’d thought about her a great deal over the past few weeks, of her inevitable hurt and anger. There was no way to explain to her why he had to leave, why he couldn’t stay. More than that; there was so much left to teach her about sword-fighting, so many stories yet to tell her, so much love left to give her.

“I have to go. I — ” He swallowed. “She’ll get over it.”

Robb’s expression went taught with incandescent rage, and in a blink Jon was on the ground, his jaw throbbing, eyes watering with pain. “You shit,” He snarled, “You selfish, inconsiderate, stupid  _ bastard _ .”

The word reached into Jon’s chest and clawed at his heart, blood welling to the surface of him, hot, hurt and angry. Robb stood over him, tall, proud and trueborn, wielding the word he promised to never use against him, entirely unrepentant. 

Tears burned his eyes, and he stayed sprawled on the ground, anger and shame warring for dominance in his heart. He could feel Daenerys’ concern, her own vengeful anger, but she stayed on her side of the bond, just as she said she would. 

“What do you suppose will become of me without you?” Robb demanded, arms stiff at his sides, hands shaking even though they were curled into fists. He kept glaring for a few more moments before his expression slackened, bottom lip trembling as he sank to his knees beside Jon. “Why do you want to leave so terribly? Is it — did I do something wrong?” 

“Not you,” Jon reached out to grip the fist that had punched him, desperate to tell his brother everything. He was sure Robb would understand, if only he knew. “I don’t want to leave you.” 

“Then  _ why _ ,” Robb’s voice cracked and broke, and Jon hauled him in close for a bone-crushing hug, unable to watch his despair any longer. “Why won’t you stay?” 

“I have to go. Your mother wants me gone, and once Father dies I’ll only be an inconvenience and a threat to your position. What’s here for me other than that?” 

“I’m here,” Robb insisted, pulling away fix him with a glare, “Me. Your brother. I would never turn you away from home, and I know you’d never threaten me, not even if you had a hundred sons and I had none. Jon you have to know how much you —” 

“You’re leaving?” 

They both looked up, and guilt threatened to strike Jon dead at the sight of Arya, her expression so cold it seemed to be carved out of stone. 

“No, Arya, he —” 

“Yes.” Jon cut Robb off mid-explanation, ignoring his brother’s betrayed look. “I have to go. I’ll leave as soon as Father gives me his permission.” 

“And if he doesn’t?” Arya pushed, still impassive. 

Jon tilted his chin up, hole in his heart widening until it felt he could pull the whole world into it with the force of his suffering. “Then I shall have to run.”

Arya mirrored his pose, lifting her head to look down her nose at him. “Then run.” She challenged, voice remarkably calm. “But know that if you do I will never speak to you again so long as I live.” 

With that, she spun on her heel and flounced off, hair streaming out behind her. Robb shot to his feet, gave him one last awful look of betrayal and sorrow, and ran off after her, leaving Jon sitting in the dust and dirt. 

No matter what he chose, someone got hurt. 

If he stayed in Winterfell, Daenerys remained trapped under Viserys, her sadness growing and deepening with every day, threatening to eclipse the fire that burned inside her, that made her who she was. 

If he left, his Father would feel the shame of his dishonour forever, and Jon would feel the weight of his disappointment until he died. If he left, he would lose the love of his siblings, the easy camaraderie with Robb, the pure and gentle bond he had with Bran, the teasing laughter and understanding that ran between him and Arya. 

No matter which way he turned, his life seemed to be torn apart, leaving him bleeding and mourning in the middle of it.

Somehow, he found the strength to drag himself up and walk the path to his quarters before he crossed the boundary between him and Daenerys to collapse in her arms, sobs shaking his shoulders. 

She did nothing more than hold him without touching him properly and run her fingers through his hair.  

“They’re going to hate me,” He croaked once the worst of the tears had subsided. “They all will.”

She made a soft cooing sound, holding him tightly. “They could never hate you, you know that.” 

“Why not? Their mother already does, and now Sansa. It wouldn’t take much more than me leaving, and then when we come home they’ll refuse to see me.”

“Well then,” She said carefully, “I suppose there’s only one thing for it, isn’t there?”

He pulled away to glare at her, his vision still blurry and out of focus. He blinked away his tears patiently until the sight of her sharpened. “If you tell me you don’t want me to come to you, I’ll scream.”

She could hardly muster a smile, refusing to look at him. “Jon, we’ve been avoiding this for years now, but no more. If you leave Winterfell —”

“When,” He corrected stubbornly, “When I leave Winterfell.”

“ _ If _ you leave Winterfell,” She plowed on just as stubbornly, “You will lose your father and your siblings. You will lose your home, your safety, your future.” She paused, and he could feel her trying to shape her words so as to soften the blow as best she could. “I hope you can understand why that is something I cannot allow.”

“Dany!” He jumped to his feet, anger quickly replacing his sorrow. “You can’t be serious! I swore a vow to protect you, remember? I cannot honour it if I am stuck here.”

“I made a vow too, Jon.” She reminded him gently, “I also promised to protect you.” 

He scoffed, “You’re worth a thousand of me, Dany.”

“Not to me.” 

He dropped to his knees in front of her and grabbed her hands. “I told you I would come,” He said firmly, “Fuck everyone else, Dany, you’re more important.”

She gave a watery laugh, shaking her head. He tugged her closer, as though the lack of distance between them could sway her decision. “You’d never make it to me.”

“I would,” He insisted with the confidence of a boy who had never left the North, let alone Westeros’ shores, yet still felt that the world would bend to him if he just tried hard enough. “You’d have to guide me, but I’d manage well enough. Might lose a finger or two on the way, but I’d manage.”

The smile slid off her face at the image, face contorting with grief for something that hadn’t even happened. “You wouldn’t make it to White Harbour.” Her words hit him like a slap, and though he didn’t move, betrayal filled him. “Your father did not give you his permission to leave, so you would have to go in secret, with no coin, unable even to use his name to your advantage. What would you do without money? Where would you stay, what would you eat, how would you get on a ship? Perhaps you could work for a time, but it would be hard, and it would take years to earn enough.” He squeezed her hands protest, so hard he swore he could almost feel her. “Losing a few fingers would be the least of your worries. Gods, if you made it to Essos it would be a miracle.” 

He gave a low, anguished cry, the sound ripped from the very core of him without his permission. “I can’t bear being apart from you any longer Dany,” He said, shutting his eyes, “I’ll go mad.”

She swallowed, and leaned in to touch her forehead to his. “If you try to come to me, you will die before we are in the same city.” She waited until he opened his eyes, her expression one of careful calm. “And if you die,  _ I _ will go mad.”

He wrenched himself away from her, going so far that he jumped back to Winterfell, falling onto his hard cot. She was in front of him before he could blink, standing before him with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. 

“Why,” He croaked, “Why does your pain come before mine?” 

Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was a stupid thing to say.

Daenerys had lived a life full of struggle, mourning and pain. She had scarcely known a day of comfort since Ser William had died, and the only joy she knew were the hours spent with him and his unruly siblings. Even if he did not hear her every thought, even if he had not sworn a vow to protect her, even if she was not his princess, her pain would still come first. 

She straightened, pulling inwards as her spine stiffened. “I am your princess, Jon Snow. If I command you, you are bound by your vow to obey me.”

He shut his eyes, overwhelmed by the strength of his devotion to her, his heart ripping in two as he bowed his head in supplication.

Each way was misery, but as he lay down in his cot, feeling the stiffness in her muscles as she tried to find comfort against her wall, he couldn’t help but think that the way he had been forced to go was worse. 


	4. Age Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya! i'm really sorry for the long stretch between updates - i'm in the middle of one of the busiest semesters i've had at uni so far, but i am still writing behind the scenes, i swear!
> 
> i just wanted to re-iterate that i am not at all well-versed in the canon, and i write just for fun! i will get things wrong, and i will also change certain things for the sake of my own storyline (ie. making dany and jon closer to the same age - only ab six months separates them in this), and i'm sorry if that annoys you - i will try to keep my mistakes to a minimum!
> 
> i cannot stress enough how much your comments keep me going! big love to everyone who has encouraged me to keep going, and i am sorry i don't have the energy to go totally canon-divergent.
> 
> this is a very short interlude between the next big chapter. hope you lot enjoy!

_Age Fifteen_

 

“Gods,” She said, grinning so widely that her cheeks ached, “It’s all so exciting, isn’t it?” 

Jon made a non-committal sound, eyes tracing over the brightly-lit courtyard below them. 

Winterfell was alive with noise and hubbub, the courtyard swarming with servants rushing around, frantic to complete their jobs before the nobles began to arrive the following day. 

Two of Ser Rodrik’s boys pushed their way between the cook and a maid, hauling a massive animal carcass between them. She gasped and hit Jon’s arm out of excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she watched them until they disappeared into the kitchen. 

“Pig!” She practically squealed, “You’re going to have pig!”

 _“They’re_ going to have pig.” Jon corrected snootily, “I’ll probably be stuck with chicken.”

“Gods, I can practically taste it,” She half-moaned, ignoring his attitude, “D’you think they’ll do it with the honey glaze this time?”

“I’ve not a clue,” Came the droll response.

Despite his bored tone, Jon gave his mood away by tightening his grip on the bannister until his knuckles went white. 

She hissed as his ache travelled into her own fingers and elbowed him in the side, giving him a scowl when he turned to look at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “It just seems like a waste of time.” 

“What? Talking to me?”  

He gave her the ghost of a smile, acknowledging her attempt at lightening the mood, and turned back to watch over the hubbub. “This. All of it. The pomp and ceremony. It all seems —” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, struggling for words. “It all seems fucking pointless.”

She watched him for a moment, calculating each micro expression and comparing them to her knowledge of his moods, coming up empty. Usually he was just as excited as her for such celebrations. “Alright then, grumpy. What would give you more joy?”

He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “I don’t know.” His dark eyes were unreadable as they danced from person to person. “I suppose I wish I could just go away and never return.” 

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Go away?” She laughed dryly. “Yeah, right. You wouldn't last an afternoon. You’d miss home too much.”

His eyes darted to hers briefly to take in her expression. He lifted both shoulders this time, a gesture of placation. “Maybe.” 

“Jon,” Her voice took on a strange edge, an unfamiliar emotion settling in her gut. “You _would._ Of course you would.” 

He made no reply. 

She straightened her shoulders, defiance entering her stance. If he wanted to act like a grumpy bastard, she’d bite back. “Alright then, Snow. Where would you go?”

“Nowhere.” He said instantly. “Somewhere I wouldn’t need to come back from.” He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe Old Town.”

 _“Old Town?”_ She said incredulously, half-offended that he didn’t say Essos. “What in Seven Hells would you do in Old Town?”

“Become someone no one knew. Someone people wouldn’t be able to hate before they knew.” 

Instantly, her demeanour softened, guilt creeping up her spine. 

As was usual with Jon, his morose attitude was rooted in his status. His mind was a swirling, murky mess, and she couldn’t see what had happened to make him quite so despondent, but she knew it had to have been some stupid remark about him being a bastard. 

“What happened?” She asked, placing a gentle hand on his arm. 

Again, a shrug. “Nothing. I think I’ve always wanted to get away from here, deep down. I’ve only just realised it.” 

She studied his face, trying to keep a lid on the feeling of helplessness that began to bubbling away inside her.

She had allowed pain to get the best of her many times. Life without a home, without the security of money, with a volatile man who didn’t know how to control his anger, was more than difficult. 

Each time she was brought low, Jon seemed to know exactly what to do; what words to offer, what company to give. Now, when she found his mind similarly shrouded, she was unable to see through to the answer to his troubles.

Instead of dwelling on her inadequacies, she gave her head a short, sharp shake and forced a bright grin onto her face. “Come on, grumpy. Let’s get out of here.”

He furrowed his brow, but barely protested when she led the charge down the stairs and through the bustling courtyard. After a few mumbled excuses to the men on watch, they were off, walking through the night in silence. 

After half an hour, they reached their usual spot atop a small hill. The soft glow of Winterfell could still be seen behind them, but the rest of the landscape was shrouded by the dark, sprawling expanse of the Wolfswood. There, without any torch light, the stars shone especially brightly overhead. 

She was the first one on her back, hands folded behind her head so she could watch the stars comfortably. 

He followed a little more cautiously, hissing as the water from the damp grass soaked the seat then the back of his tunic. 

“I would have brought a blasted cloak if I’d known we’d be trekking all the way out here,” He grumbled, wincing as his hair made contact with the wet ground. 

“I’m sure you will find a way to survive, Snow,” She sing-songed, grinning when he gave her a familiarly irritable flick in the side. 

Words of comfort were not her forté, and despite having Jon for almost her entire life, she had next to no idea of how to cheer him up. But this - watching the stars, making fun of him, laughing together - she knew how to do. 

They lapsed into silence, watching the brilliant canvas of light above them, the night air still but for the distant sounds of animals. 

“Dany?”

She hummed, content to lay back against the grass and believe that she was truly in the North, that her life was with him, that she did not have to go back to Viserys. 

“You know that I love you, don’t you?”

She started. 

When she turned to check if he was joking, he was already staring at her seriously, propped up on one elbow. “Jon,” She smiled awkwardly, “Of course I know.”

He studied her, watching for — well. 

Whatever he thought might be missing from her reaction, she supposed. His mind offered no clues, still an uncharacteristically swirling mess. 

“I do,” He insisted, shifting closer. “More than anyone.” 

She half-laughed, “Not more than Arya.”

He frowned, apparently offended that she wasn’t taking him at his word. “I love Arya, but there’s no one I love like you.”

She made a face, and, on such unsteady ground, she reverted to what she knew of him, of their dynamic. “Alright, Snow, what do you want? You don’t have to flatter me, you know; if you really need me to do something, I’ll do it without you buttering me up.” 

His face fell. 

Before she could even open her mouth to correct her mistake, he sighed, big and heavy and put-upon, and turned to lie on his back. “Never mind.” He said, tone flat, words dull.

She chewed her lip. “I love you too. Obviously.”

He shot her a half-smile, yet another placating gesture. It slipped off his face almost as soon as it arrived, replaced by a curiously blank expression that he turned up to the sky.

He was no more than half a year older than her and had no more life experience, but atop that grassy hill, she suddenly felt like Arya; silly and young, unable to grasp the nuances of his introspection.

She had no idea how to fathom his sudden mood swings, had no more clue how to speak to him than his siblings did. It was as though he was speaking in a language which  _ sounded _ like something she knew, but there were too many small intricacies for her to fully understand. 

And even though there was only a few fingers between their bodies, there seemed to be more than an ocean between them.

Eventually, after a long stretch of silence, he got to his feet, brushed himself off, and gave her a hollow grin. “Time to go home, I think.” 

Despite her warring thoughts and guilt, she obligingly jumped back to Essos, curling into a ball on her bed as sleep evaded her.

Was it possible to share a mind with someone, yet not know them at all? 


	5. Age Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi pals! please mind the change in the tags. 
> 
> i will not be explicit, i will not waste more than a few lines on it, but there are two seperate occasions that i will mention sexual assault, both of which occur at the end of the chapter. if you don't want to read about it, i'll leave a small chapter summary in the notes at the end and tell you (if you want to read the rest of the chapter) where i mention it. 
> 
> stay safe, and please don't read this if it will upset you!
> 
> all the thanks in the world to those who keep reading and commenting and lighting the fire under my arse to continue and complete this fic! i appreciate you all more than words :)

_Age Seventeen_

 

For the first stretch of the journey, they rode in relative silence. 

Jon kept his eyes trained on his father’s back, on the brilliant whip of his cloak as it flew out behind him when a gust of wind picked it up. 

Daenerys sat behind him, astride the horse, watching the countryside fly past. The air between them was thick, the weight of the farewells said and unsaid draped over their shoulders. 

“Do you think they’ll miss you as much as we will?” She eventually asked, voice soft and uncertain. 

Jon tightened his grip on his reins. “Not sure.” He said shortly, thinking of Bran lying alone in that bed, face stark against the darkness of the furs. Rickon, bottom lip trembling as Jon ruffled his hair. Robb, and his brief embrace. “I don’t think my older brother will miss me very much at all.” 

The words were untrue, spoken out of turn. 

He was so angry at himself, at his father, at the whole damn world. Despite so many years wishing feverently to journey to the Wall, now that he was on his way, he couldn’t avoid the truth, couldn’t help his unwillingness to leave his home. He wished he could swallow the resentment, but it stuck to his throat and refused to move, festering. 

“You’re wrong.” Daenerys hit back instantly, ever ready to jump to the defence of a sibling he talked badly of. 

“Ah yes,” He muttered, more snidely than he should have, “And you would know better than I.” 

“He’s my brother too.” She bit out, gripping his arm harshly. “I grew up with him.”

He thought back to all the times she would sit in on his sparring sessions with Robb, every time she would bring up the rear as they explored the Wolfswood, each witty insult she shot at them when they stumbled or fell. 

Even though Robb had no knowledge of her, he supposed that she was right in saying he was her brother. He’d felt a similar connection to Viserys, before he became truly cruel; he had been an excellent storyteller, and on occasion could be guilted into being a good brother. 

But most of his affection for Viserys stemmed from the love Daenerys had for him; even after he saw what a monster he was, sometimes he caught himself thinking fondly of the cruel fool. That was all Daenerys and her unshaken belief that he wanted the best for both of them.

The moment Viserys struck her for the first time, every fond feeling Jon had held for him vanished.

When he thought of the love he had for his siblings — Arya and Robb most of all — he could only imagine what he pushed upon her. 

His resentment softened. “We won’t see him again.” He said quietly, smiling automatically when his father turned to look back at him. “Not for a long time.”

He couldn’t feel Daenerys pressing her head between his shoulder blades, but he knew she was doing it all the same. 

“He’ll come visit,” She promised. “He and your father and Arya and Bran and Rickon. They’ll all come soon enough. You know how Arya will miss you; it’ll only take a few months before she’s worn them all down.”

He couldn’t quite muster the image in his mind. 

His father would be in Kingslanding for at least a year, more likely many years. Arya would be trapped there just as long, longer if she was married. Robb couldn’t leave Winterfell whilst their father was absent. Rickon might hate him by the time he was old enough to come. And Bran — Gods, he didn’t know if Bran would _live,_ let alone muster the strength to visit. 

He turned in his saddle and gave her a smile anyway. 

He missed home already.  

 

\- - - 

 

After her children were born, she was granted a few precious moments alone with them. Though she had insisted she was well enough, Jorah had ushered her into her tent and shut her in, forcing her to have a blissful moment alone. 

The loss of her husband and child ached fiercely, a dull thump under her rib cage and behind her eyes. 

She didn’t know when — if ever — she would ever be able to feel whole again. 

“By the Gods,” Jon murmured suddenly, close enough to her ear to make her jump, “It doesn’t feel real.”

He appeared by her side and shuffled onto his stomach so he could study the green dragon up close, eyes full of wonder. She shifted her eyes to him, blinking past the pain.  

He hadn’t believed in her ability to walk through the flames untouched, despite seeing and feeling everything that she did. For him, it was too big a risk. 

He’d pulled on her arm, took her to his campsite beyond the Wall, and begged her to stay with him. 

 _I need you,_ He’d begged, wrapping his arms around her middle desperately, _I can’t do any of this without you, Dany. Please, stay. Stay with me._

He had not voiced any of his nastier thoughts, but she knew them well enough. They were the thoughts of Jorah, of her ladies, of the whole ruined khalsar. They were the thoughts of every one of her enemies in Westeros, of anyone who heard her House name. 

_Mad woman._

Now she sat with her three children, with a man that was invisible to everyone but her. If the remainder of her people had not bent the knee, if she could not feel her dragons under her fingertips, perhaps she too would think herself mad. 

“I want to name one after you, but I cannot decide which.”

He snorted derisively. “You want to name one of these magnificent creatures _Jon?”_  

 

She knew, somewhere in the back of her head, that his comment was intended to be funny, but she didn’t laugh. 

 

She couldn’t remember how. 

 

“They are magnificent,” She reached out to Drogon, who butted her finger with a scaly head. “And I love them more than anything else in this world because they are my children. There is only one other being whom I love as much. I want to gift one of them the name he bears.”

“My name is not the legacy your children deserve,” He rebutted, clenching his jaw. What little humour had laced his tone was gone. “They are of legend, Dany. They’ll help you take your throne back. They don’t deserve the name of a bastard boy.” 

“Then they do not deserve a mother who is Khalessi to a dispossessed people.” She countered sharply. 

 

Anger. 

 

She remembered anger, remembered how to wield it, just the same as she remembered the heat of the funeral pyre, as she remembered the flames swallowing her whole.

 

She could manage anger. 

 

He ducked his head, avoiding the argument. Careful as anything, he stretched out a finger and traced a line down the spine of the green dragon, prompting a shiver as the creature tried to ward off the phantom touch. 

“It’s funny, you know.” He said, changing the topic, “I can feel them. Not like you, not like Ghost, but they’re there.”

“Ghost.” She stretched into Jon’s mind and brushed the backs of her fingers over Ghost’s mind, drawing more strength from his familiar low grumble. “Sometimes he’s no more than a shadow, sometimes he is almost as clear as you are.”

He hummed. “Ghost is a part of my mind, as you are. The dragons, though — they are like a pillar of fire. You can see through it, so I can, but it hurts.” 

She blinked.

It wasn’t like that at all for her; her three children were like fish, swimming in the sea, hidden just below the surface. To commune with them, she had to plunge her hands into the water and fetch them out, panting and heaving with the effort of it. 

Bathed in fire? She supposed it suited them more, but it was a strange thing to imagine. 

“Ghost is not painful to feel at all. He’s like the earth. Strong, rarely changeable, but harder to feel when one is on the back of a horse.”

“Or the back of a dragon,” Jon agreed, shooting her a sly look.

She rolled her eyes. 

She took in a breath, relishing as the air forced her chest to expand. 

It wasn’t so hard to listen to him tease her — not as hard as she thought it would be. 

They fell into silence, watching as the green dragon and the cream dragon curled up together, leaving Drogon to eye them disdainfully from his perch near her knee. 

“Cruel little siblings,” Jon clucked his tongue, smiling ruefully.

“Drogon prefers to be left alone.” 

He shook his head slightly. “All wish for the company of their siblings on occasion, no matter how irritable they can become.” 

“If you had only felt as such about Sansa whilst you still lived with her.”

Cruelty. 

She remembered how to wield cruelty. 

His expression tightened. His body tensed. He pulled back from the dragons. “I loved her, and treated her as best I could, but there is only so much one can do when they are hated.” 

“She did not hate you.” 

He laughed bitterly. “Didn’t she? She did her best impression of it, then. Convinced me well enough.”

“It was Lady Stark who swayed her to such feelings,” She said dismissively, “Sansa was no more than a silly young girl following in the footsteps of her mother. How could she have ever truly hated you?”

He shot to his feet, scowl darkening his expression into a mess of resentment. “How long will her mother’s cruelty excuse hers? How long will it excuse my father’s cruelty?” She blinked up at him, mind running slow. The headache worsened. “It was through no fault of mine that I was born, yet I was blamed — _am_ blamed at every turn.”

“You’re suggesting your father did not love you?”

Ned Stark’s death was a horrific weight on his shoulders, she knew that well enough. Worse was his longing to join Robb in the fight against the Lannisters, but he seemed to have forgotten himself. 

His life at Winterfell had not always been kind, but he endured not even _half_ of the cruelty pressed upon her. 

Her brother beat her at the drop of a hat, demeaned her most hours of most days, and gave her away because he thought it would give him an army to take his throne back. 

Despite that, she never once doubted his love for her. 

He had a foolish desire for a power, a madness had plagued him since the responsibility for her safety had been heaped upon his soldiers, and he was cruel, but he lacked no love. 

Jon, with his home full of love, laughter and embraces, insisting childishly that he was unloved and uncared for made her blood boil.

“Aye, he loved me,” He trampled on blindly, “But he did not care enough for me to stop her, nor his daughter, nor his hostage whom he called his son. He did not care enough to tell me what the Wall was, what I was condemning myself to. Seven _bloody_ Hells, he did not care enough to send me to you, preferred instead to encourage my quest to go to this damn hell hole.” 

“Jon,” Drogon perked his head up, eyes tracking her every movement. He sensed it, the shift from her ever-present hum of grief into the fiery blaze of anger. “I think you should go sleep this temper of yours off, before I lose mine.” 

His head snapped to hers, dark eyes widening when they met hers. He took a step back, seeing the fire within her, sparked into a blazing inferno by his ungrateful rant.

“He was wrong not to chide Lady Stark for her contempt. He was wrong for not correcting Theon and Sansa in their address of you, wrong to send you to the Wall with no word of what would meet you there. But he loved you. That is all that matters.” 

His expression shuttered, and the bond grew slack with his effort to pull back as far from her as he could without shutting the door. “Yes,” He said dully, “Love conquers all ill.”

She deigned not to answer, biting back on a slew of rude things she wanted to spit at him, instead turning to her dragons. All three peered up at her, the two small ones more sleepily than Drogon, but each ready for an altercation. 

“They need names.” 

Names were important. 

_Beggar Princess. Mad woman. Khaleesi. Targaryen._

“If you name one Jon,” He spat, continuing his belligerence. “Then he will be a laughing stock for the rest of his days, not the least because _Jon_ is an exceedingly stupid name for a dragon.”

She had half a mind to shut the door, but when Drogon gave a snort, she softened. No matter how furious they each were, she still wanted Jon with her when she gave them their names. “Names for my dear children.” 

The two smaller dragons stirred, untangling from each other, eager to receive her words. 

“Rhaegal,” She whispered to the green one, who blinked up at her owlishly, “For my dear son, and the person I hoped my dear brother was.” 

Jon crossed his arms over his chest. 

He said nothing. 

“Viserion,” The cream dragon gave a low squawk of approval, shifting closer to her. “For the brother I once loved more than life itself. And Drogon, of course.” The largest dragon didn’t even blink, having borne his name for hours, “For my husband.” 

Jon was still mum, but his mind was a swirling mess of disapproval. 

“Speak your mind, Jon.” She ordered unfeelingly, unwilling to let him fester and grow even more cruel.

“Do you think it right to give him that cunt’s name?” He spat acerbically, words spilling out of him like poison. “He is your child, yet you curse him with the name of a wild brute.” 

Her lip curled. “I will not hear you speak of my husband in that manner.” 

“He knew nothing of care, nor love.” He continued, his lips pursed and jaw locked tight between words. “He only became soft to you because —”

She pushed him away with all her strength, knocking him back to his party beyond the Wall. She didn’t so much as close the door as slam it shut, breaths coming in deep pants. 

The fact that he _knew,_ yet he still dared to say such things, tore through her, leaving her incandescent with rage.

“Bastard,” She whispered, curling her hands into fists, nails cutting into the soft flesh of her palms. _“Bastard.”_

She sat for a moment, watching her hands shake as she clenched them, trying to keep a lid on her wrath. When she loosened her fist, she stared blankly down at her palms. 

Eight neat, bloody crescent marks stared back at her. They would likely scar, and it would hurt to hold things for at least a day.

Jon had broken his hand not too long ago. He had slammed it into a wall, over and over and over, until his bones crunched and snapped. 

She flexed her hand, watching as more blood welled up to the surface, a brilliant crimson. 

The pain of the break had echoed up her own arm. Even long after it had healed, he still got phantom aches whenever the weather dipped too suddenly, and she felt those too.

She clenched her fist again, but lay her fingers flat rather than curled in, hiding the marks from sight. 

The one thing she did not have was the network of scars along his knuckles, made by the same incident. They had been an angry red for the first few weeks, but were now white where they criss-crossed. 

An unavoidable reminder.

 

 

_Hours after he’d left her, she stopped her shaking long enough to open the door between them._

_In an instant, Jon was kneeling at her feet, pulling her into him._

_She couldn’t feel his arms wrapped around her, the hot puff of his breath on her neck, but for the first time, she was grateful for the barrier that kept him away from her._

_Their minds melded together, her agony meeting his anguish until she couldn’t tell whose pain she was feeling._

_The blood streaming from his hands matched the weakness in her knees, the burn in her throat, behind her eyes. She was glad for the physical manifestation of his rage, the sharp pain that echoed up her arm, making her breaths come in short pants._

_“I love you,” He’d chanted, over and over, “I love you.”_

_She’d squeezed her eyes shut._

 

Her first few weeks with her husband were buried behind a vault in her mind, a heavy door with locks all the way up and down it, keeping the memories away from the rest of her. Jon had similarly shut his own memories away and refused to think about him at all, even after she came to care for him. 

 

And now —

 

Over an _argument_ —

 

She gathered her dragons into her arms and got to her feet. 

 

Lead. 

She knew how to do that. 

 

\- - - 

 

He was an idiot. 

He was more than old enough now to know where to step and what to say, and yet. 

He shoved his face into his hands and blew out a frustrated breath. His hand ached, fingers twitching without the warmth of his gloves to keep them contained. 

By the Gods, he was an idiot. 

More often than not, it felt as though there was a screen between him and every other person alive. His thoughts and feelings seemed to be that of an alien species, foreign to any who came into contact. Even Daenerys, who was as close to him as one could get, often seemed a thousand miles away, caught between a pain beyond her years and an unwavering trust in all people. 

He clenched his shaking hand into a fist. 

A tear slid down the bridge of his nose and he damn near punched himself in the face in his eagerness to wipe it away. 

He loved her. 

He had been in love with her for as long as he could remember. Maybe ever since the first time they met.

(Maybe not. 

She had been rather rude.)

He knew she didn’t feel the same way — how could she, when all she had time to do was worry about was the next fucker who had been paid to slip her something or slide a dagger between her ribs? — but that didn’t matter. 

Truth be told, he didn’t want her to love him the way he loved her. His love choked him, crippled him, laid him low and helpless. He felt a fool in front of her, stumbling over his words, trying to navigate his way from what he felt to what he should say. 

He felt more a fool when she was behind the door. 

He lowered his hand and pressed it against his abdomen. Even when he made a fist around the boiled leather of his armour, the tremors refused to cease.

That night — and so many that followed — she shut him out. She drew back so far that he could barely hear the hum of her mind. She refused to open the door despite his screaming pleas.

It made him go wild. 

The hallway walls of Castle Black served as his sparring partners until his hands were a bloody, ragged mess, and the pain emanating from his sword arm almost equalled the pain of being kept from her side. 

He screamed and yelled until his throat was hoarse, even after he was pulled, kicking and thrashing, inside. A few brothers strapped him to his bed so he couldn’t hurt himself any more, and one murmured something about madness. 

His screams did not stop. 

The door remained shut. 

She was trying to protect him when it was _his_ duty to protect her. He had never felt so wretched in all his life. 

When she had finally allowed him in, she cried out as his physical pain took ahold of her. He smothered his next yell as her pain hit him, vowing to kill the animal as soon as he made it to her side. 

 

 _I’ll leave in the morning,_ He had promised, _I’ve sworn no vow yet. They can’t stop me coming to you._

 _You’ll stay,_ She’d replied, voice curiously blank. She’d had her head on his shoulder, cradled in the circle of his arms. _I’ll kill you myself if you come for me._

 _Why?_ He’d demanded, making to pull away from her. She had tightened her arms around him, refusing to allow the separation. _I’ll die if I stay here._

She had shut her eyes. _I only have you, Jon. Do you understand me?_

 _Yes,_ He’d said impatiently, _Which is why —_

 _If I lose you,_ She’d continued, I _will die. I will have nothing else to live for. Do you understand me?_

_Dany, I wouldn’t —_

_Do you understand me?_

His shoulders had tensed. Every part of him ached, his heart worst of all. He’d looked down her back to where his hand rested, a mess of blood and bone. 

Despite everything in him, he had shut his eyes, tugged her closer, and nodded his head. He knew the pain would eventually drive him to madness, but she came first. 

_I’ll stay._

 

He looked down at his hand now. 

The web of scars that littered his knuckles were white with age, so unnoticeable that sometimes he entertained the idea of forgetting about them. 

After promising to stay at the Wall, he turned into a husk of a person, a shadow slinking around the Wall, only Ghost at his side. 

How could they not drift after that?

When they were children, they had so much time to play together. Even when she was walking across cities to find shelter, they made her journey into a game. Pain — or what he’d thought was pain — was never so difficult when he was with her. 

And now —

He looked over the vast expanse of ice and snow, thinking of his life _before._ Thinking of his vile words, of her shattered expression, of her disgust, of the door shut between them as she marched across deserts to try and find a home. 

He hadn’t been alone in years. 

He couldn’t remember what being alone felt like. Even in his dreams, she was by his side, making snarky comments or resting the ghost of her fingers on his arm. 

 

By the Gods, he was so damn lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter summary: jon and dany leave winterfell, and have a short conversation on the back of his horse about whether or not his family will come to visit him. we have a time jump to the birth of the dragons, where dany is distraught over the loss of her child. she's lost to her grief, and baits jon into an argument. jon says something out of turn, dany pushes him away, and there seems to be an unbridgeable gap between them. we get a brief look at jon at the end of the chapter, where he's angsty and regretful. 
> 
> places in need of a tw/  
> \- from the line “He knew nothing of care, nor love.” until "Lead. She knew how to do that."  
>  \- milder mention at the end of the passage, between the lines "Even when he made a fist around the boiled leather..." and "How could they not drift after that?"


End file.
